…my mother had fallen again.
I found her collapsed next to the bed, trembling, with watery eyes and blue lips. She hadn’t managed to reach the bathroom. My eldest son, Andrei, only 12 years old, had reflexively called 112. He was crying and shouting on the phone that “grandma is dying.”
When I got home, she still had her head resting on the edge of the rug she had woven years ago, in her childhood home in Bistrița. Her hands were clenched around an old, embroidered handkerchief that her mother had given her before she got married.
I felt a lump in my throat.
The doctors said she was exhausted, dehydrated, but her heart was still beating strong. I closed the bedroom door and sat alone in the kitchen. It smelled of linden tea, just like she made on winter evenings.
I cried.
Out of shame.
Out of guilt.
Out of memories.
I remembered the mornings when she would wake us up with toasted bread and homemade zacuscă. How she would crawl through the snow to wash the building’s stairs, just to avoid being in debt. How she stood for three days straight at the maternity ward when I gave birth to Vlad, because she didn’t want to leave without knowing we were okay.
And I… I had asked her for money.
For what? For a corner of the bed, for a few bowls of soup, and a pillow she couldn’t sleep on anymore because of the pain?
The next day, I placed my mother in the armchair in the living room, under the icon of the Virgin Mary that she had brought from Maramureș. I covered her feet with the crocheted blanket she had made two winters ago and said:
— Forgive me, mother.
She smiled weakly.
— Child… you don’t owe me money. You owe me love. And I know you have it.
In the weeks that followed, our lives changed. We hired a lady from the neighboring village, a gentle woman, who comes three times a week to help my mother with washing, dressing, and even sewing — yes, she still sews, with a trembling hand, tablecloths.
The children play next to her. They ask her things. She tells them stories about ghosts, weddings from long ago, wars, and dowries.
And I… I have learned to stop.
To always put a cup of warm tea in front of her before she takes her pills.
To arrange her pillow at her neck, just like she did for me when I had a fever.
To thank her.
Because, in a world where the elderly are too often forgotten in nursing homes, I realized that I had a treasure at home.
My mother.
A woman who gave me life, gave me strength, and still, at 74, teaches me lessons in humanity.
And there is no amount of money in the world that can pay for that.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
